


The One You...

by coalitiongirl



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coalitiongirl/pseuds/coalitiongirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The necessary scene in Dead Things, after Buffy departs the police station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One You...

She stumbles out of the police station, awful horror finally settling in her mind and pushing the old horror away. _Warren. Warren did this. Not me. Warren._

 _Warren’s the monster._  But that’s a lie, isn’t it? She knows it instinctively and hates herself for the knowledge, hates herself for the words she’d spouted only moments before to the one person who won’t be dissuaded. The one person who knows her so  _damned well_  that he knows that her words and fists had had little to do with him and everything to do with herself.

 _“Put in all on me. That’s my girl.”_

She lets out a little moan of anguish at the thought of the thing she’s screwed up most lately, the one she has no choice but to face right now. Non-negotiable, and she has only herself to blame for the situation.

She turns back into the alley adjacent to the station and crouches down beside Spike, hating herself for the love and relief she can see swimming in his eyes. He presses a kiss to the fingers she lets trace over his bruised face and murmurs, “Buffy?”

“I’m here.”  _I’m so, so wrong._

“You came back.” There’s so much awe in his voice that she wants to sob again, to lash out at him and hurt him until he hates her properly like she deserves. She isn’t some kind of goddess, some warrior for good. She’s lost, confused Buffy, who isn’t a murderer but would beat someone she cares about into a bloody pulp, who would use someone she loves just to make herself feel, who would abandon her sister and duty because it’s just so much  _easier_  than living in this world-

“Oi.” It’s soft, but it stalls her self-recriminations for a moment, and she watches his eyes struggle open to meet hers. He doesn’t say anything more and she can see the same helplessness in her expression mirrored in his, that same inability to find the words to make this better.

She swallows. “I…can you stand?”

He makes the effort obediently, sliding against her for a moment before his feet finally find purchase on the ground. It’s his upper body that’s really thrashed, and he sags against her steadying arm once he’s fully upright. She wraps an arm around his chest, holding him close and forcing away the shiver that comes from the contact.

And then they’re stumbling away together, two idiots spiraling toward destruction with no one else to cling to but each other. And Buffy knows that she’s doomed for as long as she keeps pulling Spike down with her, because he’s the only one trying to save her but instead he’s falling apart, too, trapped in the whirlpool that is Buffy Summers right now. She’s too selfish to push him away for good, too needy to let him go. And he’s exactly what she doesn’t need.

“Warren,” she finally blurts out, her whisper loud and harsh in the silence of night. “I think…that girl was his ex. He did this somehow. Made me believe…”

Spike lets out a stream of curses. “Fucking  _git_.”

“Yeah.” She tightens her grip on him, pulling away almost immediately when he hisses in pain.

He shakes his head. “No, s’alright. Just a bruise.” Then he’s angling back toward her and she has no choice but to lace her fingers back around the affected area. Is he so desperate for her touch that he would take unneeded pain for it?

Yes. Yes, of course he would.

She blinks back hot despair welling up beneath her eyelids and keeps moving forward determinedly, listening to the ragged breaths that Spike takes with each step and struggling to find something to say. Something to make it better.

There’s nothing that she can tell him, nothing beyond  _I’m sorry,_  and that’s not something they do. There are no words strong enough to explain herself, none that would drive him away even when he does understand. It’s Spike, and it’s why she hates and needs him so fiercely. So they walk on in interminable silence and she stops thinking altogether, not beyond the feel of his shoulder blades tensing and relaxing with each step, his cool breath soft against her cheek as he watches her instead of the street ahead of them, his own hand flung around her shoulders and stroking the side of her neck almost absently.

She pushes open the door to his crypt after what feels like hours, ignores his mumbled protests and helps him down to the bottom level where he’ll be more comfortable on the bed. His eyes are awash with love and gratitude and she can’t get away quickly enough, climbing upstairs to raid the fridge for blood and the bottled water he stocks for her. But he’s still staring at her like she’s perfection when she returns, and she doesn’t dare look him in the eyes while she pours the water into a basin and dampens a washcloth.

She peels off his top and dabs water onto his wounds as he drinks the bag of blood she’s given him. It’s worse than she’d thought at first. Smooth, alabaster skin has been replaced with mottled bruises, a darkening pattern of reproach burning her eyes. And above them, Spike’s face, still unsettlingly understanding.

“I hate you,” she murmurs, if only to make his face darken and the forgiveness vanish. Instead, he tangles his fingers in her other hand, the one that’s been unconsciously stroking his cheek this whole time, and moves it to press against his gentle lips. The next words emerge unbidden, barely loud enough for even her to hear them. “Why won’t you hate me?”

His gaze says too much. The compassion is overwhelming, the love too much, and soon she’s off the bed and backing away, horrified again at herself and the vampire who won’t give up on her.

She turns on her heel and bolts toward the harsh light of impending sunrise, mere hours away.


End file.
